


Love Not War

by mific



Category: This Means War (2012)
Genre: Adrenaline, Covert Operation, F/M, Fanfiction, Infidelity, Love Triangles, M/M, Polyamory, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 15:40:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/599407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mific/pseuds/mific
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It wasn't what Tuck had envisaged for himself, after Katie, but it was what he had.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Not War

**Author's Note:**

  * For [movies_michelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/movies_michelle/gifts).



> This story was determined to go its own way, so it's probably both higher-rated and a little darker than my recipient really wanted - I hope you like aspects of it, anyway. Huge thanks to King_touchy, for a super-fast and helpful beta at the 11th hour.

 

Tuck would have punched FDR in the mouth the moment they hit the ground, but it was dark, and there were hostiles, and he was too much of a pro to let a no-good bastard like FDR make him fuck up a mission. Even if the wanker _had_ slept with Katie.  
  
And yeah, it had been before they were married, and Katie was his ex now, but after she found out what kind of agent he was – CIA, not travel – he'd briefly deluded himself they had a small chance of getting back together, just from the Bond factor. Okay, a _very_ small chance. Katie wasn't that shallow - she was mostly just curious, and happy to indulge Joe's bout of hero-worship.  It was still FDR's fault that he felt weird about her now, like she'd been unfaithful to him. Tuck knew she hadn't – she'd hooked up with FDR before he'd even met her – so it was irrational retrospective jealousy. Which he couldn't shake.  
  
It was like he was one of those old-time explorers, and everywhere he went, there was FDR grinning and smug, already with a flag planted. It ate away at Tuck, made him a little crazy. And FDR was always fucking there, every day at work. Of course he was; they were partners and best friends. They did everything together.  
  
Well, not _everything_ , now FDR and Lauren were engaged. Tuck didn't hang out with FDR after work so much, but Lauren asked him over to dinner a lot. He figured she felt a little guilty for turning him down, and besides, she liked testing stuff. Chicken cacciatore spice mix varieties, three brands of bottled vindaloo, iced tea sachets. The iced tea was where he drew the line. Americans had no fucking idea how to make tea and he wasn't drinking fake floral bullshit. Besides, he'd watched _Red Dwarf_ enough to know the only thing that cut through a vindaloo was lager.  
  
So Tuck got on with his life – missions, days with Joe, Sunday lunches at Nana Foster's and awkward pick-ups and drop-offs with Katie. And sometimes he went to dinner and taste-tested the latest concoction, watching FDR and Lauren fool around and flirt with each other. He didn't let them see how fucked up he was inside. He was a pro. Faking it was what he did for a living, so he laughed and teased them and never, ever outstayed his welcome.

\------

"You could date." It was a slow afternoon at the agency, the kind Tuck hated. FDR was tipped back in his chair, feet up on the desk, juggling a koosh ball. Apparently they were back in again. FDR was watching the ball's trajectory, not looking at Tuck.  
  
Tuck raised an eyebrow. "I'll handle my own love life, thanks very much. You've helped quite enough."  
  
"Be better than sitting home alone," countered FDR, flicking Tuck a glance.  
  
"And how d'you know I'm sitting home alone? I could be out clubbing, dancing the night away…" Tuck trailed off, casting about for anything else trendy and exciting he might be doing. Other than nodding off in front of the telly after a few beers like the sad bastard he was.  
  
FDR tossed the ball again. _Koosh_ it went, into his other palm. "And _are_ you?"  
  
"None of your sodding business, mate." Tuck glared at FDR. "I'm footloose and fancy free and what I get up to in my own time is my own damn business."    
  
FDR raised his hands, the rainbow colored tendrils of the ball trapped under his thumb. "Hey, I'm just sayin'. Might be good for you to get out and meet people, 'stead of hitting the sauce on your lonesome."  
  
Tuck's eyes narrowed. "Are you bugging me? Is there a damn spycam in my place?" He stood up, suddenly furious. "There is, isn't there? You arsehole!"  
  
FDR had scrambled to his feet as well, looking sheepish. "Just a little drive-by garbage can check, that's all. I was worried about you."  
  
"You went through my sodding _garbage_?" shouted Tuck, livid.    
  
FDR shrugged and spread his arms. "I'm a spy, what can I say?"  
  
"Gentlemen!" The Director's voice cut through their quarrel. She was peering at them from across the room, hands on her hips. "Don't make me come over there."  
  
"No, ma'am," said FDR, sliding back down into his chair.  
  
"Ah, yeah. Sorry," said Tuck, subsiding.  
  
The Director vanished. There was a long pause.  
  
"Footloose?" whispered FDR disbelievingly.  
  
"And fancy free," muttered Tuck firmly.

\------

Trouble was, it didn’t get any better. If anything, Tuck got more obsessed with FDR, brooding about him the whole damn time. What did FDR have that Tuck didn't? He even gave in and went clubbing but the music was bollocks and no one took his fancy. He drank the same beers at the bar that he would have at home (but for three times the price), fretted about missing Project Runway, then went back to his place and tried to sleep.  
  
He didn't sleep, just lay there tossing and turning and thinking about FDR and Lauren. They were probably in bed by now. FDR'd be in novelty boxers – he only wore black ones on dates so's to look cool, and Tuck figured Lauren probably preferred the goofy ones printed with Eiffel Towers or Snoopy, although boxer briefs were a good look on FDR as well, clinging in all the right places…He slid a hand into his own shorts and yeah, his cock was taking an interest. He gave it a firm stroke and groaned a little.  
  
Where was he…oh yeah, FDR was getting it on with Lauren. She'd be in a negligee. Black, maybe; black'd look good on her. She'd roll FDR over and straddle him, pushing his arms up above his head, surprisingly strong from weight training and Pilates. Then she'd lean in and kiss him. Tuck's hand sped up and his hips lifted off the bed.  
  
Yeah, hell yeah. FDR'd be pinned there, mouth open and long eyelashes fluttering on his cheeks. When he opened his eyes they'd be blown, pupils dark. His mouth would be soft and hot and he'd make little choked-off noises in the back of his throat and there'd be tongues and hot breath mingling, and biting. Lauren would suck a hickey onto his collarbone and he'd taste sharp and salty. His cock would be right there in between her legs, a hard hot length straining up eagerly through the thin layers of cloth.  
  
Tuck wriggled desperately out of his own boxers, kicking them away. Yeah, fuck, that was better, FDR would like that, getting his cock free, pressing it up against answering heat. Tuck moaned, jacking himself hard now, feeling FDR's legs open wider as he ground down onto him, cocks rubbing together now, slick and hot and delicious and Tuck thrashed his head and keened, hips jerking erratically as he came into his hand.  
  
Well, fuck.

\------

Tuck spent a fair amount of the time leading up to FDR and Lauren's wedding freaking out. He found himself reading blogs headed: "Are You in a Bromance? (Or is it just a Man Crush?)" and "Are You a Work Wife?" The answer seemed to be yes, on both counts.  
  
Except for the fact that FDR was still front and center in his wank fantasies. Not Lauren so much, except as an excuse to get into the scene in his head. It all came back to sodding FDR for Tuck – he'd managed to trump Lauren and Katie both, eclipse them. Fucking typical.  
  
Tuck looked up bromance on Yahoo. "A relationship with your best guy friend without the gay factor" it said. He stared at the screen. Right. Or not so much without the gay factor, actually.  
  
It did his head in, this new awareness of FDR while FDR was right fucking there every day being cocky and oblivious and moaning about the wedding. Not that he had anything to complain about. Weddings were one big series of choices it seemed to Tuck – chicken or salmon, roses or carnations, champagne or cocktails, Aunt Freida or Uncle Jack (still not speaking after a vicious divorce). Lauren had it totally sorted: she was the queen of choice. It was, after all, her job. As pre-wedding insanity cranked up in the final month, FDR escaped from the frenzy of decision-making, hanging out at Tuck's watching cartoons with Joe or playing first-person shooters.  
  
So Tuck was wingman, best man and in a one-sided non-platonic bromance with his work spouse. And all in his own head, mostly. He stared at himself in the bathroom mirror, amazed by how relatively normal he looked, then knocked back a couple of ibuprofen for the headache and went back out there for another round of _Star Trek_   on Xbox with the groom-to-be. At this point Tuck was so far gone, even _Kirk_ reminded him of FDR.

\------

Tuck got through the stag night, cushioned by alcohol. The guys from the agency were buying shots, and Tuck was awash in tequila. FDR had sunk without a trace and by the time the others poured them through the door of Tuck's place in the small hours there was nothing to be done but faceplant in a couple of beanbags. In the morning, everything hurt, so it was pretty much like the aftermath of any other mission.  
  
The wedding was strange. Tuck felt like he was watching himself from a distance, going through the motions. He did all the best man stuff – chivvied FDR into the shower and retied his tie, confiscated the bourbon when FDR had a last minute melt-down in the bathroom before the limo arrived. Gave FDR the ring when he was supposed to and made a speech with the right mix of nostalgia and innuendo. Then the happy couple drove off to catch their flight to Maui and Tuck went home and drank himself senseless on confiscated bourbon.  
  
He'd hoped it might get better after the honeymoon, and things did slide into a familiar pattern. Missions, dinners at FDR and Lauren's and outings with Joe. Nana Foster made it clear that he was expected - hell, required - at every Sunday lunch when he and FDR weren't working, and that he had to bring Joe, who was very much a grandchild in her eyes. Joe fitted in with FDR's family fine, racing around on the lawn with the other kids. Tuck felt Nana watching him sometimes, her gaze appraising. He didn't let her corner him for a chat – she was a tougher interrogator than any operative Tuck knew.  
  
Months passed, and his feelings didn't change. He got better at pushing them down, distracting himself. FDR was always there – except when he was with Lauren – and Tuck worked and joked and fought alongside him, and tried not to stare at his mouth.  


\------

The job in Yemen blew that all to hell – all his careful months of secrets and lies. Another Chinook drop off by parachute, and Christ how he hated those now. They brought back the incredulous rage he'd felt when FDR had tossed off the confession about Katie – black rushing chaos around him and inside him as they plummeted to the ground, leaving him stunned, off balance.  
  
The mission was a clusterfuck. The contact they'd been sent to extract had been killed six months earlier and they got trapped in a firefight with a bunch of rebel tribesmen. Tuck had to watch, helpless, as FDR went down with a bullet to the chest. Lauren's insistence on top-of-the-line Kevlar paid off, but Tuck couldn't feel grateful – he couldn't feel anything but broken.  
  
Later, in the safe house in Sana'a which, thank Christ, hadn't been busted, he unwrapped FDR, stripping him down to pale skin, his chest purpling up with livid marks. Tuck touched the bruises gently, feeling for cracked ribs.  
  
"It's okay, Tuck, I'm okay," said FDR softly, and Tuck realized his hands were shaking.  
  
"Adrenaline," he said, as though that explained anything at all. "It's just, I'm just," but he couldn't keep it off his face or out of his eyes. Not any more.  
  
"Tuck?" FDR's voice was wrecked as well. "What are you-"  
  
Tuck leaned in and kissed him then, mostly to shut him up. He pushed FDR back on the sagging safe house couch, took his face in his hands, and kissed him, wet and dirty, no finesse at all. FDR made choked noises and kissed him back just as desperately, and when Tuck licked down the line of his neck to his collar bone he tasted exactly right, perfect.

"Tuck, _Jesus_ ," groaned FDR, like he was in pain, and Tuck glanced up, worried that he'd jostled the injuries. But FDR just licked his lips and Christ, his eyelashes were every bit as long as Tuck had imagined. FDR's lips were open and swollen, his eyes dark, cheeks flushed.

" _Yeah_ ," said Tuck, his voice rough with want, and he bent his head and licked FDR's chest, laving the bruises as though he could heal them with his tongue, then settling on a nipple to suck and worry. FDR arched into it, whimpering, and Tuck caressed his sides, stroking up and down, trying to say _I know it's good but don't move or it'll hurt, just let me, oh yeah, let me touch you, let me..._ His thoughts slid away into salt taste and the feel of hot, smooth skin.

Then FDR's hands were in his hair, squeezing his shoulders and pulling frantically at his shirt. "Off, get it _off_ ," muttered FDR, sounding a little crazed, so Tuck straddled his lap and knelt up, twisting to peel away his jacket and shirt and fling them aside in one motion, all the while careful not to brush against the bruises.

They paused there, staring at each other, Tuck's hands on FDR's shoulders and FDR's hands on his waist. Then Tuck lowered himself down, carefully, bending forwards so as not to lean on FDR's chest, and kissed him again, licking into his mouth while his hands slid down to FDR's pants and grappled with the buttons there.

FDR reached down and took Tuck's right hand, pulling it further down and pressing it to the length of his cock. When Tuck's hand closed around it - hot, solid, feeling so right in Tuck's hand - they sighed into each other's mouths and FDR pushed up into his grip.

Tuck got his fly undone, stroking him through his pants all the while. When he got his hand on FDR's cock they lost control of the kiss, moaning, mouths sliding wetly across stubbled cheeks, uncoordinated. Tuck leaned his forehead in the crook of neck and shoulder and looked down between them, watching FDR's cock slide through his hand, rubbing his thumb over the swollen, leaking head on every stroke.

FDR clawed at the tattered rug covering the couch and jerked his hips up, keening. He came gratifyingly quickly, eyes squeezed shut, shuddering through it.

Tuck knelt there, his hand wet, cock straining painfully against his fly. They were both panting and sweat-sheened.

FDR drew in a shaky breath. "Fuck." He opened his eyes and saw that Tuck was trying to grapple with his pants left-handed. "Here, let me-"

The buttons gave way and Tuck moaned in pleasure as he got a hand on his dick.

"Hurts to move my arms too much, but you can jerk off on me," FDR whispered, looking up at Tuck.  
  
"Fucking hell," gasped Tuck, his hand moving faster.

"Yeah," said FDR, staring at him through heavy-lidded eyes. He lifted one hand and ran a fingernail down Tuck's belly. "God, you look-"

Tuck came, hard.  
  
Exhaustion sideswiped them. They cleaned up desultorily then passed out together on the single bed, waking before dawn to drag themselves through showers and dressing. FDR swallowed pain killers, grimacing at every movement. Tuck had to help him get his shirt on.

They found a gas stove and a canister of coffee then slumped over chipped mugs at a rickety table in the cockroach-infested kitchen. Tuck had expected it to be awkward, and it was.

"Goddam adrenaline," FDR said, shaking his head and not meeting Tuck's eyes. His fingers drummed a staccato rhythm on the table.  
  
"Yeah," agreed Tuck, trying to look penitent and baffled. "Adrenaline's a bitch."  
  
"We can't do this again," said FDR, frowning down at his coffee.  
  
"No, 'course not," said Tuck. "Definitely not."

\------

They did it again.

The adrenaline excuse wore thin after a while, and they didn't talk about what they were doing. Mostly it happened after high-risk escapades when they were crashed out in a hotel room or safe house before being extracted, but one time, Tuck blew FDR in an airport bathroom on a tight-turnaround mission when they weren't staying on. FDR writhed against the wall, grunting and trying not to snap his hips forward, and Tuck muffled his moans on FDR's cock and sucked greedily. He came in his pants, and had to put up with cold, sticky shorts all the way back to L.A. FDR flirted outrageously with their flight attendant the whole way home.  
  
FDR stopped hassling Tuck about dating. They never talked about Lauren, who'd stopped trying to set Tuck up with anyone as well, and Tuck wasn't thinking about that.  
  
It wasn't all quick and dirty hand jobs or blow jobs. Tuck had done some research, and he figured FDR had as well after FDR nudged him over onto all fours that time in Hamburg and kneed his legs apart, slicking him up with lube until Tuck was gasping and pressing back, begging him to get the fuck on with it. It hurt, and he loved it, and afterwards they curled up together and slept, FDR's hair tickling Tuck's nose. The man needed a haircut.

They got experimental, trying different positions. Sometimes FDR rode Tuck's cock, easing himself down with braced arms, thighs quivering with effort and his eyes locked on Tuck's. And afterwards, they shared a bed - a hard pallet or a lush five-star mattress. Even a haystack, that one time in Poland. 

They didn't always have sex after missions. Not if they were injured or just plain exhausted. Sometimes one or other of them was too bruised or tired, and they just went straight to bed. He couldn't admit it to FDR, but Tuck loved those times the best, as long as neither of them was too badly injured. Times when they just held onto each other, curled up together in the bed du jour. Tuck was usually the big spoon.

It wasn't what Tuck had envisaged for himself, after Katie, but it was what he had.

 

\------||||||------

 

"Do you know the baby's sex yet?"  
  
There were clinking noises as Nana added some ice cubes to Lauren's lime and soda. They were on the verandah, looking out at the wide lawn where FDR and Tuck were wrestling with Joe, two of the younger Foster cousins and FDR's new puppy, Lincoln.  
  
"Oh, it's a girl. You know me, Nana: I like as much data as possible, so's to make choices. Not that I'm going to dress her all in pink, though. That'd be tacky." There was a pause, as they sipped their drinks and surveyed the scene on the lawn.  
  
"They're very cute together," commented Nana.  
  
"Joe and the puppy?" asked Lauren, her voice deliberately light.  
  
"Yes, but I was thinking of Tucker and Franklin, dear." Another pause. "You _are_ aware that they're sleeping together?"  
  
"I'm not a fool, Nana. And we did test out various brands of surveillance equipment a few months ago - ironically, for the agency. There was a nifty little audio recorder that's impossible to distinguish from a shirt button. FDR's line of work's kind of hard on his clothes, and I'm no tailor but I can sew buttons back on." They were quiet for a moment. Sounds of barking and Joe's excited laughter drifted in from the lawn.  
  
"That's very enterprising of you, my dear. I assume you feel that the usual rules of engagement don't apply, given their line of work?"  
  
"That, and the way they spied on me shamelessly when we first met. They had it coming. Besides, as I said, I like data, so as to make choices."  
  
"And what did you decide, if I may ask? Although your presence here gives me some indication."  
  
"Like you said – they're cute together."  
  
"You like to watch, or rather, listen?" Nana Foster's voice was curious.  
  
"I like to _know_." There was a clink as Lauren set her glass down on the tray.  
  
"That's very European of you, my dear," said Nana easily. "I'm impressed. But then you've always been eminently sensible."  
  
"Why, thank you," Lauren replied. Her chair scraped as she shifted - she was six months along and tending to get uncomfortable after too long in one position. "My mother was from Bordeaux."  
  
"Yes, dear. I had you profiled after Franklin announced the engagement. _I_   like to know as well." A short pause, then Nana Foster continued. "I always wondered why you chose Franklin over Tucker."  
  
Lauren didn't hesitate. "He needed me more. I was worried about Tuck, but I figured he had FDR, and that's panned out pretty much as I'd hoped."  
  
"It doesn't bother you, then?"  
  
"They're spies, Nana, living out a _Boys' Own_ adventure. FDR needs to be taking risks, Tuck as well. Settling down with me, a dog and 2.5 kids was never going to cut it in the long haul."  
  
"Very true," said Nana. "Well, then. Will you have another soda?"

\------

Tuck switched off the recording from the bugs he'd seeded along the verandah. He deleted the files, overwrote them, then switched off his laptop and got ready for bed.  
  
In the kitchen, he poured a glass of water and tipped the rest of the bottle of Jack down the sink: he wouldn't be needing that any more, not to sleep, anyway.  
  
He found himself whistling as he stripped down to t-shirt and boxers in the bedroom. In the bathroom, he grinned at himself in the mirror while cleaning his teeth.  
  
Tuck stretched out under the covers, relaxing, arms crossed behind his head. Lauren's birthday was coming up next month and he wanted to give it some thought.  
  
He was going to need to get her something special, this time.

 

 

\- the end -

 


End file.
